


we both know you're my endgame

by akaashiinperiodclothing (sirbeatrix)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cancer, Cancer treatment, Chemotherapy, College, Getting Together, Illness, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-30
Updated: 2018-05-30
Packaged: 2019-05-15 21:32:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14798342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirbeatrix/pseuds/akaashiinperiodclothing
Summary: Ennoshita reckons with his crush on the gorgeous number 6 on an opposing volleyball team. His dream unfolds.





	we both know you're my endgame

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading.  
> you might wonder, "Why are cancer and various things having to do with cancer in the tags?"  
> i was diagnosed with Hodgkin's Lymphoma in September of last year. i have been cancer free since December. i wanted to add that part of myself into the story.

He didn't picture himself spending his college afternoons at volleyball games, but Ennoshita can't stop going. Persuading himself he goes to revisit the thrill of high school works for a couple minutes. 

Without fail, though, the memory of his actual reason ensnares his heart in fishnets of desire.

Number 6 on the opposing team lures him into the game, rams a hook into the slot of his unhinged mouth. Ennoshita imagines collecting the sweat rinsing the boy's skin, drinking it up and storing it in safekeeping for nourishment. This boy's aware of his enchantment over his players, his opponents, onlookers dragged along by bigger fans who ignore their phones when he wills the ball into vengeful submission. He's the reason they call his team the Iron Wall.

He may as well admit his crush to himself, but Ennoshita's lying if he says this infatuation's not a carnal priority.

"Chikara, the match ended five minutes ago."

 _Damn_. If he's started ruminating over 6 so hard that he forgets the sound of his best friend's voice, he'd better sort this crap out.

"God, Tomomi, I'm sorry."

To her credit, Tomomi combats his internal shenanigans with effortless grace. Granting the BL on her phone with one last lustful stare, she pockets the sequined silver device into the pocket of her thick black blazer. For a brief moment, Ennoshita wonders if their matching blazers and black jeans attract much attention. Quickly pushing that irrelevance out of his head, he tugs at the soft lobe of his ear.

Following Tomomi down the bleachers and out into the echoing hallway, the cacophonous rainfall of sound pounding in a downpour through his ears, Ennoshita stares down at his phone, watching his new favorite animation for the thirtieth time.

A boy stares at the mirrored image of an androgynous angel outside his classroom window. One day, the angel breaks down into uncontrollable sobs. Forgetting all instincts for self-preservation, the boy careens from the open slant of the window, screaming at the sight of his own winged body staring back at him from a bed of lilacs. 

Pressing into him, the rough fabric of an athletic blazer brushing along his elbow, a boy lends his voice to Ennoshita's ear. 

"Typhoon's stuff's the best."

It's been so long since Ennoshita's talked to a stranger that he trains his eyes on the animation's credits, forbidding himself to greet the boy head-on with any form of acknowledgement for fear of...what?

"Yeah," he says, trembling. He's usually so good with people, gauging where they want conversations to go. Not now. Not when the sound of this boy's voice plucks on the strings of a violin that sets the hairs on the back of his neck to waltzing. 

"Come down from your shelter once in a while. I can't visit you every day. Work with me."

Putting two and two together, Ennoshita recognizes the indulgent, megawatt smile of number 6, his elbow still stroking the plane of his arm.

"Since when am I sheltered?"

Out comes his voice, sounding more assured than ever, aware of its full scope.

Golden flecks of amusement spark through number 6's eyes. His smile lengthens.

"Consider me corrected..." Snagging on the identifying tag on the black phone, he nods. "Ennoshita."

_Wow, my name sounds so fucking cool._

"Mine's Futackuchi, by the way." Swerving on the worn-down soles of his white sneakers, he grinds Ennoshita into the ground with the implications of his stare. "Find me."

Staggering on his feet, Ennoshita strives to form coherent thoughts.

"Holy hell, that guy's over the moon for you."

Most of the time, Tomomi offers flippant quipps that enact extreme effectiveness at highlighting the shortcomings of Ennoshita's romantic prospects. Today, however, through her dark fringe, Ennoshita marvels over a stare of grave comprehension.

No one thought to prevent him from becoming an object of envy.

* * *

After a practice scrimmage, Ennoshita meets him by the back door of the gym, he himself drenched from a masochistic workout and still in his Karasuno senior class shirt and black track shorts.

"We can stop by my place. I can throw a quick meal together for you to eat while I shower."

"Honey bunches of oats," Futakuchi says, his fingers wandering up the inviting incline of Ennoshita's chest, "don't you worry about a goddamn thing."

Twining their hands, hoping the dampness of his palms and the hard-won scent of executing torture on himself in the name of fitness emanating from his pores do nothing to turn Futakuchi away, Ennoshita leads him to a favorite haunt, a family-owned establishment beloved for their matcha green tea ice cream.

Tucked into a separate realm bordered by the unbearable beauty of springtime rendered on piano keys, they gush over their favorite shows, favorite bands, favorite voice actors. They enjoy a good deal of the same genres, but Ennoshita writes a fair number of titles down on his hand with a blue Bic pen.

"I'm gonna host this stupid big party on Friday," Futakuchi says.

Dangling his spoon from the curling lip of his glass, Ennoshita swallows.

"It's a birthday party for a buddy of mine, but the whole school's invited. His words. You game?"

As a rule, Ennoshita doesn't do parties unless he can hang out with other introverts with his phone and his thoughts and leave before anyone else.

Drowning in the wealth of loveliness across from him, his smile askance, a moss green beanie accenting his drooping caramel bangs, Ennoshita considers the crime of passing over an opportunity for them to learn so much more about each other.

"If I can spend time with you, I'm all for it."

He still wants to know what Futakuchi sees in him. True, he's steadily been working up a definite sweat, sometimes catching himself at his bedroom mirror and struggling to recognize the boy raising an eyebrow at him. Maybe his working out's keeping Futakuchi around and not his vague stories about his creative pursuits, and what he's learned in his online film studies classes. Eventually, he'll mention his illness, but in that Futakuchi does not tire from asking him about the stories logged in his tiny black Composition book, it's better to hide that part of his life away.

"Believe me," Futakuchi says, "by the end of the night, you're gonna kick me out of my own apartment."

From that instant onward, Ennoshita concludes it's about so much more than his good looks. If anything, his sense of humor sets him ablaze from within.

"I can't wait."

Biting out a hushed laugh, Futakuchi leans over the table, splaying his palms on the scuffed wood as he kisses Ennoshita's hair.

* * *

Someone other than Futakuchi answers the door to Apartment 317.

Fingering the meandering trail of his dark hair, wishing he might discard his skin in want of a soul, Ennoshita shares his name with the wide-eyed boy, a stare of permanent bewilderment fixed on his face.

Beside him, decked out in her punk regalia of black combat boots, her rainbow hoodie and safety-pinned green skirt, Tomomi kneads her hand into his leather-padded shoulder. With her at his side, he possesses the courage to rock his tough greaser look.

"I know you said I can do my own thing, but I'm not ditching you, babe," she says. "I didn't bring my phone with me either."

"Why?"

All thoughts of her error fade out into faraway screams when he finds Futakuchi, red in the face, on the lap of some handsome older guy in the process of outlining the contours of Futakuchi's teeth with one practiced finger.

"Why the fuck did I come."

Turning to seek out an exit, any exit, tripping on the shoeleaces of his black Vans, he shoulders his way into a welcoming bedroom. Itself fetchingly neglected, the bed boasts a whopping five pale green pillows. Throwing himself down on the surprisingly buoyant mattress, Ennoshita roars into the rounded fluff of the pillows as the door slams shut.

"I hoped to all of the gods that you might come. Bad fucking timing."

Rising from the bed, rubbing the kinks from his leather jacket, Ennoshita assesses the ruin of Futakuchi's hair, his ill-buttoned mint green shirt, his tight blue jeans dangerously low around his hips.

"What'd you expect, sweetness?"

He doesn't think he can put a finger on a worse time to use that term of endearment.  _Smooth, Chikara. Now you sound like a massive creep._

"I hoped you might not haul ass minutes after coaxing yourself through my front door, hot stuff."

Sighing, Ennoshita takes one step forward. "Futakuchi."

"Kenji. You bypassed my last name way before you got the courage to talk with me."

_I'm beyond the point of pretending I stop myself from saying your first name in my head, with your taste on my lips and your need in my hands._

"I'm not your rebound."

Stripping off his shirt, Kenji shakes his head.

"No lables, Chikara. And fucking hell no to that word."

As he goes about wriggling out of his jeans, Chikara slams his palm over his wrist.

"You're drunk."

" _Kiss_ me, you grown ass man. C'mon."

"Nope."

"Fine."

"Not until you're 100% sober. Maybe then I can trust you."

Pouting, his face reddening by the second, Kenji rights his posture. "If you can't trust me when I'm lucid, how can you trust me when I'm sober?"

"Sweetness, didn't I say you're drunk?"

"That negates the point."

"What on earth does that mean?"

"Chikara!"

Slamming the bedroom door open, his leather jacket studded with patches of punk bands, Yamaguchi collapses on the torn knees of his black jeans.

"Someone drugged Tomomi's drink. Kei's helping her out. Can you come help us?"

Rushing past Kenji, Chikara finds Tomomi in Yamaguchi's longtime boyfriend Kei's arms, blanching and teetering on the edge of hurling, tears angering her eyes.

Guiding her to the bathroom with Kei's help, the taller boy only supporting Tomomi on his bare shoulder as she vomits down his arm, Chikara comforts her through the agonizing pain of ejecting the vile concoction from her gut and into the toilet. The three of them close themselves in the safety of the bathroom as commotion explodes inside the apartment, guests tripping over each other to run out the back door, questionable Ziploc bags snatched from impulsive hiding places.

Standing outside the door, wearing on his face for all of the world to see a mask of uncomprehending shame, sadness and an otherworldly anger aging the worried lines beneath his eyes into craters, Kenji informs them he'll drive them home in the morning.

"Tadashi's got me," Kei says, scootching past Kenji and fetching his phone from the deep pocket of his khakis. "Text me later, Chikara."

As Kei heads out the back door, Kenji yawns into the crook of his arm.

"By morning, I'm hoping I'll have sobered up. I gotta spend one night in all seven layers of hell before I can convey how sorry I am."

Smiling, braiding Tomomi's hair with the unthinking aptitude borne from muscle memory, Chikara nods.

"You're forgiven," Tomomi says, staring up at him from Chikara's lap. "Don't host parties alone. Ask this one for help next time."

Kenji nods, folding his arms. "I don't know what I would've fucking done without you. I would've panicked and worried about the police busting my ass and my parents throwing their years of therapy down the drain."

"You've got help." Tying Tomomi's braid with his thin bracelet of molten orange thread, Chikara grits his teeth. "Learn to ask. From now on, we're sharing companionable drinks in the warmth of my apartment."

"Mine first." 

Smiling, Kenji leans further into the calming shadows of the bathroom light.

"Done," Chikara says, easing his body closer. "If I can spend the night."

Laughing, Kenji exits backwards into the silent corridor, his footfalls sounding out a soothing melody on the carpeted floor.

"Babe, that's a given," Tomomi says, massaging the palm of his hand.

* * *

Between classes, Kenji uses FaceTime to chat. Since last weekend, when Chikara wrote to him about his cancer diagnosis and his treatment, he's gone with him to three oncologist appointments and visited him at the clinic for chemotherapy once. He's come close to losing it multiple times over Chikara attending his volleyball games even though his oncologist reminds him during every appointment to avoid crowded places. Every time he tries, he can't bring himself to yell at the earnest and openhearted face staring back at him with hopeful dark eyes.

Laughing to himself from text messages at dinnertime, sleepily saying good night after long phone calls and parting with his phone in the kitchen for a change rather than bringing it to his bedroom, he finds himself in his idle moments dreaming of Chikara's imminent second visit to the apartment. 

That Friday, Kamasaki and Moniwa invite themselves into his kitchen for a quick beer. Parked at the cluttered round table by the coffeemaker and open windows, the both of them stare in awe as Kenji stores piles of unwashed dishes into the dishwasher.

"Fucking what already, guys? You can stop staring at my ass now. It's one hell of an ass, but what's up?"

"He's on his way, isn't he," Moniwa says. "That guy who reminds me of the handsome lead in a 1940's romance."

"Director," Kenji says, clicking his tongue. My ass  _does_ look good in cut-offs, he thinks, surveying himself over his shoulder. "And yes, my phone buzzed my butt, so he's definitely en route. Curse your intuition, Kaname."

"Pretty sure he wants to see me dead," Kamasaki says, shuddering a bitter laugh into his beer.

"Yeah, and no wonder! How about not planting me on your lap to get a fucking piece of lettuce out of my teeth?"

Almost too quiet, soft enough that the three of them strain their hearing, a series of hesistant knocks sounds on the door.

"It's him," Moniwa says, jumping up. "We can finally meet your squeeze!"

"You can meet my somethin' somethin' when you scoot your butts outta my house.  _Out_ , you two."

Swatting them out the back door, static electricity clinging Kenji's white button-down shirt to Kamasaki's bright yellow blazer, he wrestles the folds from his bring pink cut-offs as he races to the front door. 

"Hi," Chikara says, his voice deep and warm, the calcified heart of a wintertime hearth. He's wearing Kenji's beanie with a lopsided flair and a strapping black cardigan over trim black jeans.

"That hat's yours." 

Falling over the threshold in a gesture of trust, spreading the brunt of his hard-earned weight in Kenji's arms, Chikara sighs against his neck. 

"I want to kiss you so badly, I might burst into song."

"Please do."

Before he can clarify which of the two he means, Chikara winds his hands through his hair and kisses him with the whirlwind pow of a baseball overpowering all obstacles in its ascent into a home run.

"Who in hell taught you how to kiss like that?"

Laying his beanie on the kitchen counter, Chikara quirks one dark brow.

"My boyfriend. You'd love him."

"Yeah," Kenji says, massaging his hands down the sculpted plane of Chikara's back. "I love mine, too."


End file.
